Spread Love and Light Wherever You Go

After her husband wrote scathing letters that might permanently scar the relationship between recipient and sender, Mary Todd Lincoln used to slip down to the post box and whisk the missives away, her husband none the wiser—or so I remembered. It was actually Mr. Abraham Lincoln himself who penned fiery condemnations and then put them under lock and key before they burned any bridges. Nevertheless, I still like to imagine that his level-headed wife intercepted some of those complaints. Sometimes we need help to be noble—maybe Good Ol’ Abe was no different.

How useful is a complaint, really?

On my best mornings, as light from the window swirls round the murk of last-minute dreams, I wake to thoughts of gratitude. It’s a conscious effort of eschewing what defeats I suffered yesterday and what dragons must be slain today, giving space instead to think about what is right in that moment.

I don’t always remember to do it.

This week, I positively forgot what it was like to feel grateful. Instead, I woke with feelings of indignation, anger, and vengeance. My skin prickled, my blood turned to acid, and my vision shrank to pinpoint accuracy on what was wrong and how I was going to come out on top. Motivating? Absolutely. But I felt poisoned.

For our lodging this week, we chose a “Luxury Serviced Apartment” in a town near the Wessex Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. Doesn’t that sound sublime? It’s our unstated mission to burrow a bit into all these green patches labeled as AONB on England’s map. We’ve been to East Devon, South Devon, Mendip Hills, Quantock Hills, the Cotswolds, all as uniquely lovely as can be. This time, though, we were sorely disappointed—a little bit by the lack of what we would call “outstanding” beauty and, more importantly, by the nest from which we aimed to view it.

I’m proud of the fact that we’ve adapted to a variety of digs these past sixteen months: a Mongolian ger where the frost came up under the canvas and spread across the dirt floor; a Siberian train car with lights flashing and wheels clacking all through the night; in a smoke-filled room over an Australian pub where raucous drinkers did their best to dance off the stress of wild bush fires on our doorstep. Given past experiences such as these, we figured this week’s “luxury” accommodation was going to be a breeze.

Of course, unlike the train or the ger, the apartment itself was not the draw, rather the access to the copses and pastoral hills that inspired Richard Adams to write Watership Down. We’d been listening to the story as a family for some time now and were eager to catch sight of Hazel, Fiver, and Bigwig’s children racing across the down to conspire with a seagull or outsmart a cat.

Instead, though, I found myself conspiring to outsmart my landlord.

The first oddity was a bit of cookware in the cupboard that had a smear of last night’s cooking. Then more pans with some strange unscrapable glazed-on goo. I guessed the cleaning staff missed that detail. I opened the oven to toast some bread—What? A charred pan with uneaten chicken. Wow, to miss that, the cleaner must have really been in a hurry to get the job done. Then I opened the washer to find some stained towels inside. With washerwoman instincts, I took a whiff—Ach! Not stained, FRESH urine all over them. Wait a sec… probably something to do with those pale yellow blotches that I first thought were an abstract pattern on the rug where my boys were playing.

It was the dog pee that did it.

I sent a message to our host to complain. Following a civil report of the problems, I wrote, “I know I don’t need to tell you that cleanliness is of utmost importance in our current climate of COVID. It’s too late now; we are here. Perhaps a rebate of some sum is in order.”

We didn’t hear back. And my blood boiled.

Two days later, I wrote again, this time to the company website. As an aside, we think it’s a shame that many of the lodgings listed on AirBnB are now cookie-cutter productions of impersonal companies such as this one. Not only are these boxes of walls entirely lacking in warmth and charm and enough cutlery to put a decent meal on the table, one misses out on the opportunity to connect with the owner—often a local expert with terrific stories and unique perspective—over a cup of tea. These are the kind of experiences that the business was built upon, and modern places like our “luxury” apartment do its legacy little justice.

Well, my electronic form complaint worked. A most apologetic chap on the line was astonished at our experience and offered us a partial refund and a visit from the cleaner that afternoon. Of course, we’d already washed all the foul linens and scrubbed the dishes clean (because that’s what adults do), so a cleaner wouldn’t be necessary. The rebate, however, was much appreciated and reasonable compensation for the trouble. Maybe this company wasn’t so impersonal, after all.

Wrong. The head cleaner showed up two hours later. We were confused. She was uncomfortable. The instinct of politeness begged me to invite her in, much to Chris’ dismay (he remembered that you aren’t supposed to have outsiders in your flat at this time). I think, too, that asking her to come in was an effort to show that we are likable people who can be trusted. It was a regretful error. She did not wear a mask, could not maintain social distance in the small apartment, and did not seem hesitant to invade our space. After ten minutes of searching the apartment and complaining about how her employer doesn’t give her enough time to turn it over between tenants, she left.

It was a stressful experience cloaked in affected politeness. Come to think of it, my phone call with the man from the rental company had the same costumed coating. Does anyone ever really want to pull off the mask of civility to confront another person about his or her errors directly? (“If you have anything to say to me, say it to my face!…. But make sure you wear a mask.”) No, we like to prance around the issue with diplomacy. Then, once behind a shield made of computer screens and internet cables, we launch our real opinions onto the stage and don’t have to be there when the incriminated receiver on the other end explodes.

There was an explosion in this case. The man from the company wrote us a message to explain that there would be no rebate after all. The cleaner found five people in the apartment, a violation of their rules, he said, (it’s true, we often book four-person accommodations since our boys are still small enough to share a bed), and if we complained further, he would report us to AirBnB.

Whoa! Accusing us of foul deeds to clean up your mistakes?

No way, mister! We have a sterling history as tenants, and this conniver was not about to upset that! I led the Santillo family in a thorough cleaning of the apartment, so our uppity host couldn’t condemn our habits. To stand up for my good standing, I sent one more personal message to him, referencing the list of glowing reviews other hosts gave us (Take that!).

Meanwhile, I mentally wrote and re-wrote my one-star review; it was the first thing I thought of when I woke up, and the last thing I thought of when I went to bed at night. I may not have much weaponry against companies like these, but I was going to bury that one little star as deeply into the corporate hide as I possibly could!

My boys thought I’d better reassure you at this point; after all, nobody likes a complainer. Rest easy; I promise I’m getting to the moral of this story very soon.

Then, after a week of using rancor to fill the hole where there should have been rapport, a magical thing happened.

I held that white-hot little star in my hand, gave it one last look, and let it go.

Stepping out of the arena of psychological warfare long enough and far enough, I saw the situation as it was. Reviews provide a way of warning people away from harmful properties, but this wasn’t a harmful property. It was impersonal by our standards, but we probably could have figured that out if we have looked at the listing more closely. Our host, for all his bluster, felt terrible about the cleanliness of the flat and took steps to address it—as evidenced by the cleaning woman’s wounded pride. So what more could we serve by carrying that poison in our hearts for even one more day?

My word, did I feel better! Free! Like me again. It’s you I have to thank, really. You are my imagined Mary Todd, here to read this letter and tear it up before it is ever sent. Moreover, you have lasted this long in the story to hear me share the following revelation, which I hope will save you from future troubles:

Whether we seek joy or pain, we will find it.

I’m pretty sure you’ve heard this maxim before, in one version or another. I know I have. How easy it is to forget when face-to-face with a foe—but they are only ‘foes’ if we choose to classify them as such. My story today is not meant to teach anything new, but to remind us what is possible when we choose to focus on that which brings us joy.

In the Santillo family’s case, at this moment, that joy is the Apple Tree Cottage in which I now sit. Cozy, thoughtfully outfitted, full of board games, whimsically embroidered pillows, and practical kitchen tools, it’s lovely. The wisteria-trimmed stone walls have been home to Karen’s family for years. Paul, her brother, is visiting and has loads of fantastic lore to share around the fire pit, Finn the Dog made fast friends with the boys as they built a fort in the tree where Karen’s grown children used to play.

A westerly path leads from the cottage to the nearest pub just thirty minutes away—or twenty if you walk as fast as Karen. Together we charged spiritedly along this path, our collective pace set as though to outrun the nettle sting of recent woes. So I like to think. It was not too fast, though, to keep from seeing a parade of boisterous guinea fowl, hedgerows heavy with fruit, and a sunset carrying messages to the dearly beloved and departed over silver fields.

Over a pint of Guinness, we transitioned from guests and hosts to friends. I like to think that this new friendship is the gift purchased by the star I never sent—the negativity that I let go.

Thank you, Karen and Paul, for renewing our faith in humanity. And thank you, all powers that be, for the benefits of spreading love and light wherever you go. Message received.